The Alternative to Conversation
by Supergirl 55
Summary: Lilah/Wesley. Sometimes he really needs her not to talk.


**AUTHOR:** Supergirl  
**TITLE:** The Alternative to Conversation  
**SUMMARY:** Sometimes he really needs her not to talk.  
**PAIRING:** L/W  
**TIMELINE:** early season 4 of _Angel_, around the time of "Ground State"  
**SPOILERS:** most of season 3, and 4.2 — "Ground State"  
**RATING:** R, for sexual situations  
**DISCLAIMER:** You know, my shrink keeps telling me I'm not Joss Whedon, but it's just so hard to grasp...  
**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** I actually wrote most of this after "Slouching toward Bethlehem" (4.3). But there aren't really any spoilers for it.  
**DEDICATION:** To Annalore, for helping me make this better. And to Stephanie and Alexis for being such great actors in the roles of Lilah and Wesley.  
**FEEDBACK:** I want it! I need it! I crave it like vampires crave blood!  
**DISTRIBUTION:** Outside links only please, if possible. And let me know where it's going.  
  
  
  
  
"Shut up, Lilah."   
  
"Make me."   
  
That's what it's always about, isn't it? — making her shut up. I've never met anyone who yammers as incessantly as that woman, especially during foreplay. Going on about every single one of her villainous schemes, making sure I never forget just how "evil" she really is. Like I could give a bloody damn.   
  
I'm well aware of what she does for a living. Doesn't change a thing for either of us. Lilah's no more than a distraction, a way to pass the time, and I doubt I mean any more to her than she does to me. Good sex and an occasional round of banter, that's all we really are to each other. It doesn't matter in the least which sides we're on.   
  
She's an outlet. Not just for boredom, I suppose. For anger, frustration, bitterness... finally lust. In short, all the tiresome emotions I have no better use for. And hating her is easy enough when I need someone to hate, particularly since I've long gotten sick of hating Angelus and the rest of my former "family." None of them are worth the effort, I've come to realize.   
  
  
Our first time together, I remember, she told me she wasn't 'one of the dewy-eyed girls of Angel Investigations.' Funny — I never really pictured her as Fred. Or Cordy, for that matter. Or Faith, or Virginia, or Michelle Pfeiffer, or any other woman I might have preferred in my bed. No point in pretending, I say.   
  
Lilah, of course, doesn't share my sentiments. She'd rather play games with me instead, thinks it turns me on. Acts like we actually mean something to each other, as if we could be lovers, partners, enemies, friends... when she knows bloody well that we'll never be any of those things. We're nothing but two people — two random bodies — tossed together by... no, not even fate. Mere circumstance. We could be anyone. I could be any other man, bruising her mouth with kisses as he slams her against the wall of his apartment. She could be any other woman, clawing at the back of my neck with her free hand while she jack me off. But instead she has me, and I have her: Lilah Morgan, the self-proclaimed Queen of Darkness. And me as her Judas Iscariot, held captive by her hot mouth, just like in Dante's bloody book.   
  
  
Oh, the things she can do with those lips and that tongue… as long as she doesn't use them for talking. I do, however, have ways of shutting her up, and quite efficient ones at that. Rather hard to keep up conversation when you're waling at the top your lungs, I've found. And she loves it, of course, loves it when I make her scream. Loves it when I'm rough with her. She'll never admit it, but I'd wager I'm the best she's ever had. That, or she's damn good at faking it. Not that I'd care, one way or the other.   
  
It's not as if this is about _her_. Lilah doesn't matter to me. As I said before, the only thing between us is sex. And perhaps an evil law firm, and a souled vampire with his bastard son. But neither of those things bares much importance to me anymore, so that leaves what? Her. And she's just a woman — just a body. Nothing but a convenient screw.   
  
  
Not that it would be very hard to fool myself, if I so desired. There are instances, I admit, when it does almost feel like... like she's someone. A girlfriend. A high school crush. A prom date, and I'm a bumbling schoolboy, finally getting to score. Like I'm the man I was, un-jaded by all that's happened. It almost feels like Sunnydale. Until I remember that she's no Cordelia Chase, adolescent and pure, not fully aware of the effect she has on men like me. No, Lilah knows exactly what she is. If anything, she's certainly not that girl.   
  
Yet it still manages to feel like that occasionally if I'm not careful, if I haven't got my guard up. Those times when we take it slow, when I'm covering her body in kisses, or spreading her thighs to bury my head between them, it almost feels like making love to her. When she trembles under my caresses, and feather-light laughter turns to mewls of pleasure, and she moans my name blissfully as she comes.   
  
I could almost forget — who she is, what we are, forget that she's nothing to me — if not for those other times. If not for the sex toys, the bondage, the dirty talk, if not for the times when it's hard and brutal, the way we both like it. Up against the wall, on top of the kitchen table, at the foot of the bed because we didn't make it all the way; her on top, me taking her from behind; clothes half torn off, teeth, nails, harsh jibes and insults groaned in each other's ears in place of endearments. That's when I can remember exactly who I am, and what she is, and why I hate her.   
  
  
But then there are the times, far between yet still too often, when we lie wrapped in each other's arms afterwards and just breathe. It's that rare and highly inappropriate post-coital sweetness that I'll allow only because of a secure knowledge that any minute her phone will ring. And then she'll get up and go, back to the offices of evil, back to doing her job as the big villain. Back to being the thing I despise, that I've pledged my life to fight against. Except sometimes it doesn't ring. And she doesn't go.   
  
And it's strange holding her, this cold, hard woman feeling so warm and soft. It's all a little too real. And I'm a fool and I know it. I shouldn't be having this affair. It's too close to... something. Something I can't quite name. But I know that Lilah shouldn't be curled up against me, whispering a sort of tender nonsense in my ear that's very uncharacteristic for a woman like her. Finally, I can't stand it any longer and push her off, rolling over on top, glaring down at her.   
  
"Shut up," I growl, only half joking.   
  
I can see in her eyes that she's aroused again almost immediately. Good. Sex — rough, gentle, whatever — is always better than talking.   
  
"Make me," she challenges with a lustful smirk.   
  
Don't worry, my dear. I know just how.  
  
  
  
_~END_


End file.
